


a stormy sunlight

by appleeater



Series: the golden age [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Arthurian, Friends to Lovers, Gleeful Anachronism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-08-06 06:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16383332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleeater/pseuds/appleeater
Summary: “Is it an alpha male thing?” Bossuet asks.“Is what an alpha male thing?”“All the fighting with Sir Bahorel. Are you trying to prove dominance by going after the strongest of the pack?”





	a stormy sunlight

Bahorel swears as the blade of the sword just misses his shoulder. He leans low on his back foot just in time to avoid it. 

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Bahorel taunts his opponent. 

Sir Feuilly doesn’t respond, not with words. He attempts to take advantage of Bahorel’s imbalance with a fierce upward jab, but Bahorel is ready for him and parries. He shoves his entire weight forward, sweeping out with his foot as he does so. 

Feuilly goes sprawling. He brings his sword up just in time to block the downward arc of Bahorel’s blade. Bahorel bears down and Feuilly is forced to roll out of the way. 

His chest is heaving but Bahorel doesn’t take too much satisfaction in it; he’s just as out of breath.

Bahorel is about to follow up his attack with another, not planning to let Feuilly have the chance to get to his feet, when they’re interrupted by someone calling his name. 

Bahorel huffs and straightens, lowering the practice blade. He turns to face the interloper, who turns out to be Combeferre. 

“If you’re finished here,” Combeferre says, looking amused, “the king would like to speak with you.”

“Just a moment,” Bahorel says, annoyed at having been interrupted. 

Bahorel offers his hand to Feuilly but as usual he ignores it, getting to his feet on his own. He only ended up on his ass twice and they’d been sparring for the last hour. He’s getting better, though Bahorel knows better by now than to offer praise. 

“Until tomorrow,” he tells Feuilly. 

Feuilly nods. “Tomorrow.”

Bahorel shakes his head with a laugh and lets Combeferre lead him away. 

\--

When Feuilly returns to his quarters, Bossuet is there, working on some correspondence. As is often the case, Joly is perched on his bed, reading through what it probably a medical text. 

Feuilly technically shares his quarters only with Sir Bossuet but Joly is there more often than not. His quarters in the infirmary are smaller, apparently, and have rats. It had annoyed Feuilly, at first, but the two of them have grown on him, even if he does have to absent himself from the room at odd hours to give them privacy.

“Is it an alpha male thing?” Bossuet asks, looking up from his letter, as Feuilly strips off his shirt. 

“Is what an alpha male thing?” Feuilly asks, examining his second-best tunic, trying to see if the tear in the seam makes it unwearable. 

“Give it here,” Joly says, gesturing at the tunic. Feuilly gratefully hands it to him. Joly has a neat stitch. It doesn’t matter that he learned through practice on skin rather than cloth. 

“All the fighting with Sir Bahorel,” Bossuet answers the question. “Are you trying to prove dominance by going after the strongest of the pack?”

“No?” Feuilly says, regarding Bossuet with the kind of look he feels such an idea deserves.

“Why else would you challenge him every day?” Joly asks, around the thread held in his teeth. 

“I’m not losing every time,” Feuilly reminds them, though his aching body reminds him that he’s losing quite enough.

“Which is very impressive,” Bossuet assures him.

“We are impressed,” Joly agrees, not looking up from his stitching.

Feuilly begins to feel that he is being condescended to. 

“It’s not a-a dominance thing,” he says and he knows he’s gone all red. “I just think it’s ridiculous that the king’s champion won’t train with us. How are we supposed to improve if we can’t fight with those who are better than us?”

Bossuet nods slowly, tapping his quill against his chin. It leaves a dark splotch of ink behind. “I believe you are something of a rebel, my good sir.”

“I’m not a rebel,” Feuilly says, appalled. 

“I think you might be,” Joly says, smoothing out the tunic. “And now you are a rebel without a hole in your shirt. Why don’t you talk to the king?”

“About?” 

“About Bahorel,” Bossuet says. 

“He likes to fix problems,” Joly points out. 

“I couldn’t. He’s been too generous with me, already, and Bahorel’s his champion.” 

Feuilly isn’t the only foreign knight who has been allowed at court and he isn’t the only commoner. He is the only one that is both foreign and common. He has no lands to fund his knighthood, no political connections to offer instead. He is here entirely because of Enjolras’ generosity. He doesn’t want to make himself any more trouble than he’s been already. 

He should never have challenged Sir Bahorel in the first place. Bossuet is right, it was the act of a rebel, and Feuilly can’t afford to do anything but keep his head down. It’s just that he couldn’t resist. Bahorel is loud and brash. He ignores everyone but his inner circle. Feuilly had wanted to be noticed, had wanted Bahorel to realize that not everyone was beneath his notice. Feuilly might not be the best knight in the kingdom, or even the second best, but he is determined to become better and better all the time. 

“I’ll be better than him someday,” he says, determinedly. 

“You’ll tear my stitches,” Joly scolds, batting Feuilly’s hands away from where he’s pulling at the tunic. 

\--

Bahorel has to stop himself from whistling as he strolls into Enjolras’ study. It’s going to be a quest, he can feel it. God, he’s been stuck at the castle for months. If it hadn’t been for Feuilly, he would have gone mad. 

Enjolras is alone, a fairly rare occurrence. Usually Combeferre is hovering in the back, quietly watching, or Courfeyrac is sitting on the desk, cracking jokes. If it’s not one of them, it’s one of the less pleasant advisers, swooping in to fill the space and try to influence their king. 

“Sire,” Bahorel says, taking the seat across from Enjolras. He can hardly contain his anticipation. He hopes its a dragon. Or an elemental. Something that’s a real challenge. 

Enjolras smiles ruefully at his excitement. “I have a quest for you.”

Bahorel can barely stop himself from crowing in triumph. “And?”

“A unicorn. It’s killed three villagers in the Gray Forest and the local men have had no luck killing it.”

“They wouldn’t,” Bahorel says, trying not to look too gleeful. It’s a shame about the villagers, of course, but unicorns are top-tier stuff, almost as good as a dragon. 

Most beasts are peaceful if left alone. Sure, every year, there’s the rare manticore or griffin that loses its head and starts killing people but Bahorel spends most of his time fighting men, not beasts. It’ll make for a good change to be sent after a unicorn rather than a crime lord or a rebellious noble. 

“Who do you want with you?” Enjolras says. “Courfeyrac says you have your pick. It’s shaping up to be a quiet winter.”

“I’ll take Sir Feuilly,” Bahorel says, instantly. 

Enjolras raises his eyebrows. “Sir Feuilly. The Sir Feuilly that you’ve been fighting this entire month.”

“We’ve been sparring,” Bahorel corrects him. “And he’s good. He’s the best new knight we’ve had in ages.” 

Enjolras regards him steadily. 

“What?” Bahorel says. It might not be the most polite way for him to speak to his sovereign but Enjolras insists that none of them stand on ceremony. As far as Bahorel’s concerned, he can get what he asks for. 

Enjolras just shakes his head, almost pityingly. 

“Is there something I should know?” Bahorel demands. 

“Just be kind to him,” Enjolras says. “He’s had to endure a great deal.”

“He wouldn’t invite my pity,” Bahorel says, uncomfortable. “Or anyone else’s.” 

He hasn’t been kind to Feuilly, it’s true, but Feuilly doesn’t invite kindness. He invites well-earned respect, as well as warmer feelings that Bahorel has been doing his best to be professional about. Anyways, on principle Bahorel refuses to give quarter to anyone who can knock him off his horse. 

“I’m not asking you to pity him,” Enjolras says, in a long suffering voice. 

“Look, I treat him exactly as I do any other knight,” Bahorel says, and then corrects himself, “well, the ones that are any good.”

“That will have to do,” Enjolras says, dubiously. 

“I can take him with me then?”

“I’ll let him know,” Enjolras says. “You’ll ride tomorrow.”

Bahorel gives a whoop of joy and goes to prepare. Fucking finally. A quest!

\--

Usually, Bahorel doesn’t bother with the junior knights but Feuilly had brought himself to Bahorel’s attention in such a dramatic way that he had been impossible to ignore. 

Bahorel had been running a footwork drill with Eponine when one of the junior knights had stepped in front of him.

“Sir Bahorel, I challenge you.”

Bahorel hadn’t been able to stop himself from laughing in his face. 

“Listen,” he had told the other knight. “That’s not how things work around here.”

“Are you afraid?” 

Bahorel had laughed again but the knight had looked unamused. Bahorel hadn’t known his name at the time. He doesn’t usually bother learning the new recruits’ names until they’ve been around for a year or so. Enjolras demands excellence and not everyone’s up to snuff, even if Courfeyrac does his best to nurture the knights under his charge. 

This knight was clearly foreign, his orange hair and slight accent making that clear enough. He was tall but lean, enough so that Bahorel knew that he would have the clear weight advantage, though the other knight might have him beat in terms of speed. He knew it wouldn’t be enough, of course. It never was. Bahorel hadn’t lost a proper match in years. 

“I am not afraid,” he told the other knight. “I don’t fight untested knights, though. Get some experience under your belt and then we can talk.”

“You’re the best,” the knight had said. His face was expressionless but his eyes were burning. “I want to fight the best.”

“So do I,” he said, looking the other knight up and down.

“I can beat you.” It was said with total confidence, the strange knight’s eyes as steady as his stance.

Bahorel had felt a thrill up his spine, the sudden knowledge that he was about to fight and it was going to be good.

“Who are you?”

“I am Sir Feuilly.” 

“Well, Sir Feuilly,” Bahorel had said, with a grin. “En garde.”

His instincts had been right. He had beaten Feuilly, and badly, but it _had_ been a good fight. Feuilly had not been trained as well as he ought to have been but he had great potential. 

“We should spar again sometime,” he had told him, surprised to find that he meant it.

Feuilly’s face was red with the exertion and his hair was plastered to his forehead and Bahorel had had the passing thought he was a better looking fellow than he had thought at first. 

“Tomorrow?”

As though Bahorel didn’t have better things to do than spar with a newcomer. As though Feuilly thought the outcome had any chance of changing. 

“Tomorrow,” Bahorel had agreed, with a savage smile, determined that he would knock Feuilly to the ground.

He had knocked him down, more than once, but each time Feuilly had gotten to his feet, no less determined than before. And when they were finished, he had said, “Tomorrow?”

And Bahorel had said yes again, and had continued to say yes every day since. 

They didn’t always fight with swords. Bahorel had caught Feuilly practicing archery with another of the new knights, and had demanded a contest. That had started off a series of competitions with all the weapons in the armory, because it had turned out that sword-fighting was far from Feuilly’s specialty. 

Feuilly is better by far with a bow. Bahorel is better with a javelin. Hand-to-hand is a surprisingly close call, but Bahorel wins that match in the end by pinning Feuilly to the ground when he fails to slip out of a hold. 

They break even on jousting, failing to break the tie even when they’ve gone twenty rounds, exhausting themselves, the horses, and the patience of the quartermaster who yells at them about all of the broken lances. 

But unless they completely tire themselves out with whatever else they’re doing for the day, they spend the afternoon sparring. 

Bahorel is fairly certain Feuilly doesn’t like him. He’s serious, clearly determined to prove himself an asset, and just as determined to use Bahorel’s skill to get better. He doesn’t joke with Bahorel, doesn’t accept compliments, narrows his lips at any hints of teasing. But Bahorel can tell he enjoys their contests. He never smiles but his eyes light up whether he’s winning or losing. He seems totally oblivious to Bahorel’s occasional flirting and mild ogling. Bahorel doesn’t care to consider that he’s not oblivious but just uninterested. Bahorel’s never tried to sleep with a man before so there’s always the unpleasant possibility that he’s not attractive to men in general. 

For his part, Bahorel likes Feuilly and, god knows, he’s a pleasure to fight. So he does his best to deal with the occasional moment of lust without it fucking up his footwork. 

\--

When Bahorel goes back to his rooms, he finds Eponine leaning next to his door, slowly and thoroughly sharpening her favorite dagger. 

As he approaches she looks up with narrow cat-eyes. “I’m annoyed with you.”

A lesser man might have run screaming. Bahorel just laughs. “I needed someone who’s specialized in range weapons.”

“I’ve never fought a unicorn before,” she says, stubbornly. 

“I’m sure you’ll get the chance to someday,” he says, laughing as he dodges a jab from her dagger. She must not be that angry because she lets him. 

“I hear you’re taking Sir Feuilly?”

“Yeah,” Bahorel says. He doesn’t question the speed with which she has discovered the information. She often knows things she isn’t supposed to know. 

“You’re being rude,” Eponine says. “Keeping the unicorns for yourself, keeping the best new recruit for yourself.”

“I’m not keeping him for myself!” Bahorel protests. “You can spar with him whenever you like.”

“And when am I supposed to find the time? You spend all day training together.”

Bahorel realizes it’s true. He’s spent every day of the last three weeks training with Feuilly nearly from sunup to sundown. He hadn’t noticed, it having become such a natural habit. He _has_ been keeping Feuilly to himself. He regards Eponine with a frown and finds that he still doesn’t want to share him. But he does owe Eponine for the unicorn. 

“When we get back, I’ll surrender him to your tender mercies,” he promises. 

“Good,” Eponine says, looking somewhat mollified. “I’ve been wanting a new swordsman to practice with. He’s quick on his feet.”

“Almost as quick as you,” Bahorel says ruefully, rubbing a bruise on his ribs, where Feuilly had gotten him with the training blade. 

Eponine grins her sharpest grin and Bahorel feels a little sorry for Feuilly. 

“Make sure to bring him back in one piece, then,” she says, walking away. “And don’t get yourself killed.”

\--

Joly and Bossuet watch Feuilly pack, openly curious. 

“He must respect you a great deal to ask you to come with him,” Joly says. 

“He enjoys tormenting me,” Feuilly says, shoving gloves into his bag. “And he’s between squires. No doubt he needs someone to polish his armor.”

“Do you know, none of the knights seem to keep squires long?” Joly says, wonderingly. “You’d think there’d be more noblemen eager to get ahead at court.”

“They’re all afraid of the buggery,” Bossuet says seriously. Joly blushes and grins at the same time. Bossuet winks at him. 

Feuilly suppresses a surge of jealousy. He hadn’t come to Enjolras’ court to find a lover, of course, but he had hoped that it would be a side effect. However, despite the wider array of options than he’s used to, no prospect has emerged. 

The sexual frustration is beginning to present a difficulty. The other problem with Bahorel, besides him being an ass, is that he’s a very attractive ass. And he’s an attractive ass that is often too close for comfort. 

There had been a particularly bad moment a few days ago where Bahorel had pinned him to the ground, hands forcing Feuilly’s arms over his head. Bahorel had smiled down at him in triumph and Feuilly had thought suddenly and very vividly of _biting_. 

“God, I need to bed someone,” he says. 

Joly nods. “Quests are good for that.”

“Lots of nights under the stars,” Bossuet agrees. “No one around.”

“I didn’t mean Bahorel!” Feuilly says, feeling his face go up in flames.

“Oh,” Joly says, looking doubtfully at Bossuet, who just shrugs.

“I didn’t!” Feuilly insists. 

“Well, I’m sure you’ll have a good time anyways,” Bossuet says soothingly. 

\--

Feuilly doesn’t talk much as they make their way to the Gray Forest but Bahorel hadn’t expected him to. Everyone, even the determined Courfeyrac, has failed to get on terms of friendship with the new knight. No one has a bad word to say about him and everyone acknowledges his worth as a fighter but no one has been able to tell Bahorel a single thing about him other than that he is foreign, something even Bahorel had managed to figure out on his own. 

Bahorel is fine with the silence for the most part. It’s good to be away from the city and out in the wilds, even if it’s not a long ride to the Forest. It’s only after a few hours that he grows bored, and starts talking. 

“I’ve only fought a unicorn once before, back when I was a squire. Nasty piece of work. It killed Sir Fameuil’s horse. That’s why we can’t take our horses with us into the forest. One look at the beast and they’ll go bolting.”

Feuilly doesn’t say anything to encourage him, doesn’t even turn to look at him, but he’s listening, Bahorel can tell.

“They have a good sense of smell or maybe just good hearing because it tracked us over a long distance. It was surprisingly quiet on its hooves, too, for such a enormous animal. It snuck up on us.”

He’d gotten a nasty wound on his shoulder from it, and still bore the scar, though now it was one among many. 

“It’s best not to let it get close,” he says, rubbing his shoulder. “We’ll have to try and get the drop on it.”

He lapses into silence and is surprised when Feuilly finally speaks, his voice rough at the edges from lack of use. 

“Sir Bahorel, why did you invite me on this quest? Surely, there were more experienced knights who were available to accompany you.” 

“Well, yes,” Bahorel says, surprised. 

“It isn’t because you think I’m a-” Feuilly is very red in the face and looks like he might commit murder out of sheer embarrassment. 

Bahorel debates mocking him for the assumption but it would be an ignoble way to die. “No, that’s probably a myth or else I would have taken Marius. He’s the go-to for virgin quests, poor sod. I thought you’d be useful to have along, that’s all.”

“Because?”

“You’re fast? You handle a bow well and unicorns are hard to kill.”

Feuilly regards him with wary eyes. Bahorel’s not sure what he’s done to earn the wariness. He might be a bit of an ass regarding the new knights but he’d been treating Feuilly just like he would Eponine or Courfeyrac for the last few weeks now. He doesn’t think he’s been that obvious about his attraction, so that can’t be it. He wishes he’d asked Enjolras what kind of hard time, exactly, Feuilly had had. 

“I’ve never fought a unicorn before,” Feuilly says, finally. 

“They’re faster than ordinary horses,” Bahorel warns. “And smart.”

“I think I can handle it,” Feuilly says and then he grins. 

Bahorel hadn’t really thought of him as handsome before but the smile makes it clear that he is. It’s possible that Bahorel might be in a little over his head. He smiles at the thought. He always did like a challenge. 

\--

The villagers are pathetically grateful to see the king’s knights. They’ve lost three men already to the beast and in a farming community that can be devastating. Feuilly will remember to tell Enjolras that the village will likely need aid for the next harvest season. Of course, they’re happier still to see Sir Bahorel, whose name is clearly known to them. Some of the women clutch at him, weeping, an old man shakes his hand, thanking him over and over again. They’re polite and welcoming to Feuilly but it’s nothing to the level of adoration Bahorel receives. There’s songs about him. 

Bahorel seems uncomfortable with the attention, awkwardly patting everyone on their shoulders, promising that they will kill the beast, all the while shooting desperate looks at Feuilly like he expects a rescue of some kind. 

Feuilly sighs and steps forward. You’d think the champion of the king’s knights would be able to handle some villagers. 

“We must depart,” Feuilly announces, loudly and with as much authority as he can muster. “We cannot afford to waste daylight.”

The crowd seems eager to see them on their way at that, so they are able to head towards the forest without the accompaniment of Bahorel’s adoring fans. 

It’s terrible terrain, with poor visibility, fog hanging heavy in the air, and it’s a while before either of them speak, as they have to pay attention to their footing. 

“Thanks for that, back there,” Bahorel says, finally. “I would prefer to sneak in and kill the beast and then sneak right out again but Combeferre always insists we talk to the locals in case they have any useful information.” 

They had imparted some information, though Feuilly’s not sure how useful it will prove. The unicorn is much larger than an ordinary horse and capable of trickery, though Bahorel did not seem surprised by either of these facts. It was quiet and had snuck up on two of the men that it had killed, without anyone noticing until they had been gored. Feuilly wishes that the Gray Forest would be just a little less foggy. They could use the visibility against such an opponent. 

“It was nothing,” Feuilly says, because it was true. You would think that Bahorel would be used to it. “Do you have a plan?”

“We’ll draw it out into the open and then kill it.”

“A masterful strategy.” 

“Sometimes simple plans are the best ones.” 

Bahorel says it quietly and Feuilly realizes he’s been whispering as well. 

They move through the forest quietly. It surprises Feuilly, a little, how light Bahorel can be on his feet. It takes maybe fifteen minutes for them to come across the tracks but it feels longer, the fog blocking out a sense of time.

“They’re fresh,” Feuilly says, looking down at the clear imprints of hooves. 

Bahorel nods in agreement, looking around. He gestures to the tracks and Feuilly understands. They’re tracking the unicorn and they’re tracking it silently. 

The hoofprints lead in a straight line, almost dangerously easy to follow. Feuilly feels like he can’t so much as breath or he’ll give their position away. No birds sing in the trees. The only sound is an occasional rustling wind of through the trees. They’re close, Feuilly can feel it. He keeps his bow in one hand, arrow already cocked. 

Then the tracks end.

They both look around, slowly. They can only see a foot or so into the forest, the fog blotting everything else out. 

Bahorel reaches down and prods the ground. “Too hard for tracks,” he whispers, straightening. “We’ll have to check out the surrounding-”

“Behind you!”

Feuilly isn’t sure what gave the beast away. It certainly hadn’t made any sound that he could tell. Maybe it was its breath puffing out in the cold. Maybe it was just its very presence that had made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

But whatever it was, Feuilly’s warning gives Bahorel just enough time to leap out of the way of a charge that would have left a sizeable hole in his side. 

The unicorn stops short, wheeling around to have another go. 

“New plan,” Bahorel shouts, eyes fixed on the unicorn, as he draws his sword. “I distract it. You kill it.”

Feuilly finds he’s already raised his bow. His heart is pounding. Bahorel had done his best to prepare him but words couldn’t capture the hulking presence of the thing, several hands higher than either of them, a breathing mean-eyed reality. 

Bahorel dives to the side, striking out at the unicorn’s left flank. It’s a serious attack, not just a feint, and it demands the unicorn’s attention. 

Feuilly shoots and the arrow sinks into the side of the beast. The unicorn screams like an ordinary horse but when it turns to face him it has a distinct, intelligent look and it’s clearly decided Feuilly is the threat that should be eliminated first. It charges and Feuilly has just enough time to let another arrow fly before throwing himself out of its path. 

The arrow misses and the unicorn turns faster than he would have thought possible, slashing at him with its horn. 

He weaves out of the way but to do so he has to step closer to the unicorn’s body. It rams him, slamming the breath of his body before he can try to slash it with the arrow in his hand. 

He manages to stay on his feet, barely, and it gives Bahorel enough time to cut deep into its back leg. 

The unicorn snorts and turns around to face him, forcing Bahorel back, and presenting Feuilly with its entire left side. Feuilly, hands steady even as his breath races, prepares his arrow. 

“Eyes!” Bahorel shouts, knocking the horn back with his blade. “Or the neck!”

The unicorn rears and Bahorel isn’t going to move out of the way in time to avoid a kick. 

There is no time for Feuilly to think or for him to doubt himself. He lets the arrow fly. 

There’s a horrible wail and then the unicorn collapses. The arrow had gone clearly through its left eye. It twitches horribly, once, twice, and is still. 

Feuilly looks at Bahorel. He appears unharmed but is staring at him, mouth open. Then he laughs, the sound breaking through the tension in the air. “That was a beautiful shot.”

Feuilly walks over the beast. It wasn’t just fear making the creature seem intimidating. It truly is enormous and its horn is a monstrous thing. He pulls the arrow out of its eye. 

“Is its blood supposed to be that color?” Feuilly asks, examining his arrow with disgust. A grayish fluid that reminds him of river silt drips down it. 

“Sure is,” Bahorel says, cheerfully. He seems to largely unaffected by his close brush with death. 

He reaches down to the body of the animal and grips the horn. He pulls his dagger out and begins to saw it off. It’s hard work and takes him a few minutes, even with what is clearly good steel. When he’s finished he presents the horn to Feuilly with a flourish. 

“Your trophy, Sir.”

“Mine?”

“You killed it,” Bahorel says, sounding exasperated. He shoves the horn at him, forcing him to take it. 

“What am I to do with it?” Feuilly asks, examining it.

It’s smooth, almost like bone, and a pearly gray. It’s beautiful, Feuilly supposes. 

“Sir Fameuil made a necklace out of it for his wife.”

Feuilly gives Bahorel the look that such a comment deserves. 

Bahorel shrugs. “It’s yours. You can do whatever you want with it.” 

They leave the body in the woods, though Bahorel is careful to mark the location of it, claiming that villagers will want to know where it is. Their walk back is almost as quiet as the walk there had been, but this time it’s quiet triumph instead of quiet trepidation. 

Once he looks over and sees that Bahorel is staring at him, a strange look on his face. “What?”

Bahorel shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s just - that really was a beautiful shot, you know.”

Feuilly turns his head to hide his smile. “It was close range, nothing for you to lose your head over.”

The villagers want them to stay for a celebration but Feuilly quickly catches Bahorel’s eye and, as seriously as he can, insists that they have to press onward, by order of the king. 

They’re waved off with kisses and flowers and hearty handshakes, this time Feuilly as much as beneficiary of their goodwill as Bahorel. Then they ride a couple of hours before settling in to a night of sleeping on the cold, hard ground. 

“They were going to have a feast,” Feuilly says, glumly, munching on some dried meat.

“Unicorn’s an acquired taste.” Bahorel looks perfectly content with his own.

“They were going to eat it?”

“Yep,” Bahorel says. 

Feuilly recalls the color of the unicorn’s blood and decides that there are worse things to eat than jerky.

“We’re close to my lands, you know,” Bahorel says, looking around. 

Of course he has lands. Most of the knights do. 

“Did you want to visit?”

“God, no. My sister has got the place well in hand. I’m welcome for scheduled visits but she wouldn’t thank me for showing up unannounced.” 

“Your sister is your steward?”

“Sure,” Bahorel says. “She knows the land better than anybody and it’s not like I want to have anything to do with it. It’s a lot of work taking care of an estate.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Feuilly says, feeling a lump of anger and shame in his throat. “I’m not a noble.”

“No?” Bahorel says, looking mildly surprised. “I never can tell, particularly with foreigners, but, then again, it’s not like I’m a shining example of nobility myself.”

“You can still tell you are one, though,” Feuilly says, before he can think better of it.

Bahorel’s gaze is suddenly sharp, in the same way that it had been when he was tracking the unicorn. “Yeah?” 

Feuilly swallows. “Yeah.”

“How? And don’t give me any bullshit either. I can take the honest answer.”

“What makes you think it’s a bad thing?”

Bahorel laughs, the sound a nasty crack in the air. “Well, I know it’s not my manner of speaking or the delicate way I eat. I’m not exactly a scholar, either. So, what is it?”

Feuilly meets his gaze head-on, refusing to be cowed. He wants honesty, fine, then he can have it. 

“It’s the way you hold yourself.”

Bahorel looks surprised. 

“Like nothing can touch you,” Feuilly says. “Like you expect everything to always go well for you.”

Bahorel says nothing for a long moment and Feuilly experiences an equally long moment of dread. Enjolras might like him but Bahorel is the king’s champion. Feuilly has to stop giving into the impulse to challenge him at every turn. He can’t afford him as an enemy. He will have to be more careful from here on out. 

“You know,” Bahorel says finally, tone mild, “everything has gone well for me. How bout that?”

“I feel a sudden urge to throw all your belongings in the fire,” says Feuilly, promptly forgetting his resolution to be polite.

Bahorel laughs, a booming sound.

“Do it,” he says, eyes glittering with the firelight. “I can afford to replace all of it.”

Feuilly chucks a piece of jerky at him. Bahorel twists and manages to catch it in its mouth. He whoops in triumph. “Throw another.”

“I’m not throwing my dinner at you.”

“I’ll throw some of mine at you in repayment,” Bahorel offers. 

Feuilly shakes his head, disbelievingly. A piece of meat bounces off his cheek. Feuilly refuses to give Bahorel the satisfaction of picking it up and eating it, even when Bahorel looks absurdly crestfallen that Feuilly’s not playing his game. 

After a minute or two of sulky silence, Bahorel gives up, starting to eat again, and asks, “If you’re not a noble, where’d you learn to fight? Did you grow up in a gang like Eponine?”

Feuilly had thought that was merely a rumor but apparently not. “I learned in the ordinary place. I was a squire.”

Bahorel looks at him narrowly and Feuilly reminds himself not to underestimate him. Bahorel’s not stupid and he seems to have an uncanny ability to read Feuilly. 

“Not a lot of commoner squires.”

“No,” Feuilly says, stubbornly, refusing to elaborate. 

He doesn’t really want to talk about how he had worked his way up from the lowliest stable boy to becoming the squire of an old drunkard of a knight, who had been just as likely to throw things at him as to teach him. He had taught himself what he could, worked hard at archery and watched other knights at tournaments to learn footwork and jousting. A better knight had noticed his skill eventually but it had been a long undignified path to what men like Bahorel were just given. 

To his surprise, Bahorel drops the subject. 

“I can’t seem to keep them,” Bahorel says, not sounding particularly concerned. “Squires, that is.”

Even though Bahorel has no way of knowing Bossuet’s theory on the matter, Feuilly flushes. At least it’s dark.

“Do you throw things at them, too? That might explain it.”

“I seem to recall that you started throwing things first, Sir Feuilly.”

“Yes, but I’ve never had a squire.”

“Avoid it if you can,” Bahorel advises. “Adolescent boys are not the most pleasant of quest companions.”

“I would have thought you’d feel right at home with them.”

Bahorel grins. It’s the same grin he’s worn every time Feuilly has insulted him, lazy and warm, as though he and Feuilly are sharing a joke. 

“Is it just me that you’re bratty to or does anyone else get the pleasure?”

“You seem to inspire it,” Feuilly admits. 

Bahorel seems to take this as a compliment, rolling on his back with a pleased sigh. “I like it when you’re bratty.” He says it like it’s a perfectly ordinary thing to say to a fellow knight. 

Feuilly has been deferential for so long, trying to earn his place and keep his head down. It seems strange to step out of line and be praised for it. He feels an odd lump in his throat. He clears his throat to dispel it.

“Well, keep being yourself and you’ll get to see more of it.”

“Look forward to it,” Bahorel says, sleepily. “Goodnight, Sir Feuilly, slayer of unicorns.”

“Goodnight,” Feuilly says, but he doesn’t sleep for a long time.

\--

After they return to the castle, there’s the horse to be fed, the reports to be made, the sword to be polished, all sorts of tedious mind-numbing tasks, so it’s a while before Bahorel gets a second to sit down and think. It’s not one of his favorite activities and the results are troubling enough that he decides to call in reinforcements. 

Bahorel invites Eponine and Grantaire to his quarters late at night, bribing them both with the promise of the good wine he’d been saving for a special occasion. 

They don’t pause a second after crossing the threshold before they each have poured themselves a generous glass. Almost as an afterthought, Grantaire pours Bahorel one as well. 

Bahorel grins at the two of them. He loves his friends. 

“That’s good stuff,” Grantaire says appreciatively, lounging on Bahorel’s bed, looking very pagan, with his wild hair and ill-fitting tunic. Eponine contents herself with leaning against the wall.

“What do we owe you for such gifts?” Grantaire says. 

Bahorel joins him. It’s a tight squeeze but it’s not like it’s the first time they’ve shared the bed. Grantaire sleeps in the oddest places, crawling into others’ beds, the stables, the stacks of the library. The only place he is unlikely to be found asleep is his own chamber. 

Bahorel gives him a look out of the side of his eye. Grantaire had never tried to seduce him on any of those night time visits. Bahorel wonders if he would have let him. 

Grantaire catches him looking. “What?” he says, warily. 

“Just wondering if I’m attracted to you,” Bahorel says, because sometimes it’s more amusing to be honest than discreet. 

Grantaire huffs, throws back his hair. “Of course you are. Who wouldn’t be?”

The sarcasm is clear and makes Bahorel frown. It’s true Grantaire has no traditional hallmarks of beauty, but the maids and the stable boys seems to like it when he flirts with them. He has charm, even if he’s a mess. 

“I’m serious,” he says, shoving at Grantaire. Given the narrowness of his bed, this almost sends Grantaire tumbling to the ground. He yelps as he struggles to keep himself upright without spilling any of his wine. 

“Surely you would have known by now,” Grantaire says, giving him a resentful look as he sucks a stray drop of wine from his hand. “Unless you’ve had reason to think your tastes may have expanded?” His look turns coy. 

Bahorel sighs and takes a large gulp of wine. It’s not like he expected much more out of this evening than to be laughed at and have all his wine drunk. 

“I had not previously thought myself to be interested in men,” he begins, damning Feuilly for doing this to him. Why’d he have to have that hair and be so challenging and good at everything?

“Until?” Eponine is regarding him with eyes so innocent, she must be laughing at him. 

Bahorel drains his glass of wine. 

“The reason I asked you here is because I need your advice about Sir Feuilly.”

“Have you been brought low by the good sir, then?” Grantaire says, smirking. 

“Several times,” Eponine says, with a sharp smile. “Hadn’t you heard?”

“Yes, yes,” Bahorel says, trying not to smile back. It’s nice to see the two of them enjoying themselves, even if it’s at his expense. “Does everyone know?”

“Anyone that’s seen the two of you fight,” Eponine says.

“My blood’s always up after a fight,” Bahorel protests. “That hardly counts.” 

Eponine smirks at that. 

“You’ve really never been interested in a man before?” Grantaire says. 

“Never,” Bahorel says, with a shrug, taking a sip of wine.

“But Enjolras-” Grantaire says. 

“Not everyone thinks Enjolras is the ideal man,” Eponine says, rolling her eyes. 

“Not everyone thinks Marius is, either,” Grantaire counters. 

Eponine looks ready to strangle Grantaire. 

“We are talking about me,” Bahorel reminds them. Under other circumstances he wouldn’t mind watching them fight, Grantaire’s magic making him a decent opponent even against a knight, but they’re in his room and they’d definitely break something, maybe even spill the wine. 

“And your ideal man is Feuilly,” Eponine says with a sharp smile that makes Bahorel almost regret turning her attention back to himself. 

Ideal? Really? Though it’s difficult to imagine what there is to improve. Feuilly could laugh more, drink more, be kinder to Bahorel, but then he wouldn’t be Feuilly. 

“Yes, you would love someone who’s almost an equal brute to you,” Grantaire says, going to pour himself another glass of Bahorel’s wine. 

“I don’t just want him because he’s a good fighter,” Bahorel protests. 

“Oh? I thought you seeing him kill a unicorn,” Eponine says, with a pointed glare, “was what made you want him.”

“Oh, I always wanted him,” Bahorel says. From the moment Feuilly had stepped in front of him, challenge in every line of his body. 

“What?” Grantaire demands. “And you said nothing to us?”

“I didn’t want you nattering on about the Greeks,” Bahorel tells him.

“So why say something now? Eponine asks, eyes sharp.

“I decided I wanted him enough to make an effort.” 

In a way Eponine had been right. When the unicorn had fallen at his feet, Bahorel had looked up at Feuilly, who was just lowering his bow, a slight smile of triumph on his face, hair the only bright thing in the whole foggy forest. Bahorel had wanted to relive the moment over and over again, and also he’d wanted to fuck Feuilly very badly. 

“Well that’s all very romantic but why you’ve come to us for advice, I have no idea,” Grantaire says, clearly still nettled about Bahorel bringing up his Greeks. 

Bahorel shrugs. “Who the fuck else am I supposed to ask?”

“Courfeyrac?” Eponine suggests. 

“I would rather have my sword arm lobbed off than have him coo at me,” Bahorel says, seriously. 

Both Eponine and Grantaire agree that this is a fair reaction. 

“So you need to woo him, huh?” Grantaire says, stroking his chin. 

Bahorel is not fully comfortable with the word woo. “You know, make him want me.”

“Fucking,” Eponine says, nodding, like this is a problem she can tackle. 

“Er-not just fucking,” Bahorel says. He’s not sure how to categorize what he wants but it involves sparring with Feuilly, questing with him, sharing a bed. “I’m less worried about the fucking than the, well, the other things.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Grantaire says, solemnly. “Cocksucking is a difficult art.” 

“Fuck off,” Bahorel says. “I have to get him to like me first. I’m not sure how to, you know, go about this with a fellow knight. I can’t exactly give him flowers or get Jehan to write him a song.” 

“Ah ha, so he needs a sign of your regard. Perhaps you should let him beat you in a fight?” Grantaire suggests. 

“I don’t always have to let him,” Bahorel admits, ruefully. 

“Jewels? Pelts of beasts you’ve slain? I don't know. I’ve never tried to woo such a man. Eponine, you’re a knight. What would you want?” 

She stops smiling and Bahorel thinks that perhaps Grantaire has misstepped once more. But she doesn’t look angry, just thoughtful. “Letters, maybe.”

“Letters?”

Eponine looks embarrassed but she nods. “Letters. Not the kind with poems in them.”

Eponine’s been getting a lot of letters lately. Everyone’s noticed but no one has dared to ask. Bahorel hopes to god they’re not from Montparnasse. 

“I’m not good with my words,” Bahorel says, deliberately not asking. It would be a shame if he were to die before ever getting to kiss Feuilly. 

“Buy him something,” Grantaire says, waving off Bahorel’s sharp look. “No, not jewels. Something he’d actually like. A weapon of some kind. Armour? Who knows what you knights need.”

“It’ll take time to commission something like that.”

“You have time,” Eponine says. “And you can use that time to do something with him that isn’t knocking him around.”

“I like knocking him around,” Bahorel protests. “And he likes it, too.”

“Variety is the spice of life,” Grantaire says grandly. 

Bahorel doesn’t think Grantaire will be impressed if Bahorel lists all the weapons they fight with.

“And now having solved your problems for you,” Grantaire continues, “we demand payment.”

Bahorel smiles, already forming plans. 

“The wine is all yours,” he tells them. 

\--

Feuilly always gets up early to practice his archery before moving onto the training ground, a habit he doesn’t break the morning after returning from the Gray Forest. He’s just started when Bossuet appears. He’d been absent from their quarters upon Feuilly’s return, probably out enjoying himself with Joly, and seems delighted to see him. 

“How was your quest?” Bossuet asks eagerly. 

He’s probably avoiding practicing his own archery. He’s terrible at it and had apparently shot himself in the foot once, given that’s how he and Joly had met.

Feuilly tilts his head, the best approximation of a shrug he can manage without ruining his form. 

“He might be less of a jackass than I thought,” Feuilly says, which is not a respectful way to talk about a senior knight but Feuilly now knows that Bahorel wouldn’t mind, might even laugh if he heard it. 

“Oh?” Bossuet is wearing a suspiciously innocent expression.

Feuilly narrows his eyes at him. “There was no buggery.” 

It’s a ridiculous word for a grown man to be using and he regrets it as soon as it’s left his mouth. 

Bossuet looks disappointed. “None?”

“None,” Feuilly says firmly, setting the arrow in his bow. 

Bossuet doesn’t need to know that Feuilly had entertained plenty of thoughts about it the entire trip. Apparently he finds Bahorel attractive even when he’s not shirtless or actively wrestling Feuilly to the ground. It’s an inconvenient thing to have discovered, given that there hadn’t been the faintest rumor that Bahorel was interested in men or the faintest hint that Bahorel was interested in him more specifically. 

He shakes his head and forces himself to focus on his archery, the steady methodical twang of the bow as he hits the target again and again. It’s only when he’s run through his arrows that he can’t avoid thinking about Bahorel. It’s around the time they usually meet. 

Feuilly tries not expect Bahorel to spar with him, forcing himself to be surprised by it every time. This is just as well because Bahorel isn’t waiting for him when he gets to the training grounds; Sir Eponine is. 

Feuilly is afraid of Sir Eponine but he isn’t ashamed of it since everyone seems to be, too.

“You’re with me today,” she tells him with a wicked smile.

Feuilly has seen her and Bahorel spar before and he knows that Bahorel almost always gets the upper hand, but whereas Feuilly can sometimes outpace Bahorel, Eponine is faster than him, her blade flashing, her feet hardly seeming to touch the ground. By the time she releases him, Feuilly is drenched with sweat and ready to pass out for the rest of the day.

“Well done!” 

They both turn to see Courfeyrac who looks delighted. “Your footwork is improving, Sir Feuilly.”

“He can be faster,” Eponine says, confidently. 

Feuilly, presently feeling about as fast as tree stump, suppresses a groan.

“We’ll get you there,” Courfeyrac says. “But not today. The king wants to see you.” 

Courfeyrac doesn’t escort him to the king, waving him off, promising to work with Eponine to devise a training plan for him. Eponine’s eyes gleam at the thought, which sends Feuilly scurrying off into the safety of the castle in case she decides that the plan should be implemented immediately.

\--

Enjolras hates his study, or so he had once confided to Feuilly. He prefers being out and about with his people, not cloistered with advisers and reports to read and write. Unfortunately being king seems to involve a lot of advisers and a lot of reports.

He’s sitting behind his desk frowning down at one of the reports when the guards let Feuilly in. He looks up and smiles, setting his quill down and Feuilly can’t help but smile back. 

“Sire,” he says. “You wanted to see me?”

“I did,” Enjolras says, rising. He gestures to the seat across from his desk. 

“I wanted to check in after the quest,” Enjolras says, moving around his desk and sitting on it. “I would have summoned you earlier but I’ve been rather busy.”

He looks tired. Still majestic, still beautiful, but tired. “You work too much,” Feuilly says. 

Enjolras smiles. “According to some of my advisers, I work too little.”

When he’d first arrived to the kingdom eight months ago, he hadn’t known what to make of Enjolras’ claims of equality and comradeship amongst the knights, nor of the king’s supposed desire for informality. But it had rapidly become clear that Enjolras meant it and not just in an idealist rhetoric kind of way. 

The knights were led not by Bahorel, the champion among them, but by Sir Courfeyrac, who was a good knight but not one out of legend. His strengths lay in teaching and fostering comradery. He was so personable and kind, even Feuilly had had difficulty keeping him at arm’s length. Despite Feuilly’s complaints about the way the senior knights kept to themselves, he had to admit the lack of hazing and bullying amongst the ranks had been appreciated. 

As for the formality, in the dining hall there is no separation between commoner and noble, the king sitting with whomever he wants to converse with that particular evening. Few who live in the castle refer to him as your majesty or as anything other than his name, even in public. 

“And Sir Bahorel? How was he?” 

Fearless, handsome, rude. “He’s a good fighter.”

Enjolras frowns repressively. 

“He is,” Feuilly says stubbornly.

“I meant more how did you and he get along.”

“Better than expected,” Feuilly says, honestly. 

“You’ve been sparring every day.”

Courfeyrac must have told him. Enjolras rarely has time to wander down to the training grounds. It’s not a secret, of course, they’ve been sparring where anyone can see but Feuilly still feels strange that Enjolras knows. 

“I’m getting better,” Feuilly says. 

“You’re already very good,” Enjolras says, as though reminding him. “You don’t have to work so hard.”

“I do,” Feuilly corrects him, gently. “I want to earn my place here.”

“Your place is already earned through your loyalty, if nothing else. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” Enjolras tells him. His voice is as warm as the hand he places on Feuilly’s shoulder. 

From anyone else the sentiment would make him bristle, but Feuilly thinks that Enjolras understands. 

“I know that,” Feuilly says. “Or at least I’m coming to.”

The door opens. “Enjolras have you seen - Oh, sorry.”

It’s Bahorel. 

“Sir Bahorel,” Enjolras says, pulling away from Feuilly. “How can I aid you?”

“Sire,” Bahorel says, belatedly respectful. “I was actually looking for Feuilly but I can-”

“You may have him,” Enjolras says. “I think we’ve finished our conversation. Remember what I said, though?”

Feuilly nods at him and follows Bahorel out. 

Bahorel seems in a hurry to get away from Enjolras’ office. 

“Sorry if I was interrupting something,” Bahorel says. 

“What?” 

“You know, back there. You two-”

“What?” Feuilly can feel the dangerous edge to the word as he says it. Bahorel can’t really be implying-

“No would judge you if-”

“He’s my king,” Feuilly hisses, furiously. “Are you seriously implying that - do you think I would sleep him to gain favor?”

“No! Of course not! Christ. It’s just that he clearly likes you,’ Bahorel says, running a hand through his hair. “And Enjolras is-”

Enjolras is unquestionably the most beautiful person Feuilly has ever seen. He looks like an archangel who has stepped out of stained glass and acts like one too, all fiery goodness. But angels have never been Feuilly’s type. 

“He is my friend,” Feuilly says, not entirely mollified “and he is my king. That is all.”

“Oh, if that’s all,” Bahorel says, and there’s a sheepish edge to his smile. “Friends with a king.”

“Fuck off,” Feuilly says, but not so harsh that Bahorel will think he means it. 

The sheepish edge vanishes and Bahorel looks simply happy. 

Feuilly looks away. “What did you want to see me for, anyways?”

“Ah,” Bahorel sounds uncomfortable again. “I’m going into town and I thought you might like to join me.”

“Oh. Uh-what for?”

Now Bahorel is the one avoiding eye contact. “I was thinking about going into town to grab a drink.”

“So you want-company?” 

Bahorel runs his hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes,” Feuilly repeats. “I’ll go. I could use a drink after training with Eponine. When are you leaving?”

Bahorel smiles and there’s no mockery in it. “Now, if you’re ready.”

\--

The Lion’s Heart is a tavern like any other tavern. Feuilly finds it somewhat comforting how some things are the same from kingdom to kingdom. Dress, accents, and the rules of sport might change but the cheap ale served in taverns appears to be universal. Cheap or no, Bahorel had insisted on buying, since he had abandoned Feuilly to Eponine. Feuilly had reluctantly conceded.

“Have you been here yet?” Bahorel asks, sliding Feuilly his pint. 

“No,” Feuilly says. He’d been invited by Bossuet and Joly, as well as by some of the other junior knights but he’s never said yes before. “I didn’t know senior knights came here.”

“We have to drink somewhere,” Bahorel says, philosophically. “Even if it means being surrounded by you children.”

One of the junior knights chooses that moment to pass by. 

“Sir Gervais,” Feuilly says nodding at him.

The young man nods at him, even offering a cautious smile, but then he looks uncertainly at Bahorel and moves on.

Feuilly gives Bahorel a look. 

“What? It’s not like you’re any friendlier than I am. Is his name really Gervais? I would have thought it was Gerard.”

“He’s been at court longer than I have,” Feuilly hisses. “How could you not know his name?”

“I’m terrible with names,” Bahorel says, unrepentant. 

“Do you know any of the junior knights’ names?”

“I know yours.”

Feuilly doesn’t smile at that, but it’s a close call. “Besides mine.”

“No, but why would I? None of them challenged me like you did.”

Feuilly should be annoyed because Bahorel is demonstrating exactly the sort of attitude that had led to Feuilly challenging him in the first place but he can’t help but be pleased that he’s alone in having captured his attention. 

But he still has to say for form’s sake, “I thought you were an ass.”

“And I’ve convinced you otherwise?”

“No. Now I know you are one.”

Bahorel laughs. “Charming. Insulting the man who bought you your drink.”

“For the pleasure of insulting you, I’ll buy the next round,” Feuilly says and finds he’s grinning.

“I’m buying,” Bahorel corrects him. “After all you’re right. Courfeyrac is always on my case about not helping out enough with the new recruits.”

“So why don’t you?”

“I hate teaching,” Bahorel says. “And I’m no good at it.”

It’s true that Bahorel’s style of instruction seem to have come from the school of literal hard knocks but it’s also true that Feuilly has been improving, slowly but steadily. 

“I think you’re alright.”

Bahorel looks pleased by the compliment, lukewarm though it is.

“Wouldn’t older knights usually take over the training? I’d noticed that there aren’t many of them around,” Feuilly says. 

Bahorel grins and it’s the savage grin that he usually wears right before landing a hit. Feuilly might be developing an inappropriate response to it. 

“Enjolras ran them out. Said that if they couldn’t adapt to the changing times that their services weren’t required.”

“Isn’t he afraid of rebellion?”

“No,” Bahorel says. “There are some older knights support him but don’t want to live at court. And besides that, there’s not that many of the rebels left, since they all killed each other fighting over the throne.” 

“So we could take them if they rebelled?”

Bahorel grins again at the word we, and this time it’s conspiratorial, an invitation for Feuilly to share in the triumph. “Yes. We could.”

Feuilly finds that his own mouth is lifting in response. Their eyes lock and hold. 

“Well cheers to that,” Feuilly says, after a long moment. 

When he lifts his drink to Bahorel’s the tension is gone. 

\--

It seems as suddenly as they’d become sparring partners, Feuilly and Bahorel have become friends. 

Bahorel takes Feuilly to his lands, whereupon his sister declares she likes Feuilly better because he asks intelligent questions, something she swears she’s never heard Bahorel do. Bahorel stops being afraid to ask Feuilly to come with him to walk into town or to share supper after sparring or to play a game of cards because every time he asks, Feuilly says yes. He doesn’t stop grumbling or calling Bahorel names but he says yes, and he makes dry jokes, tells Bahorel about growing up in a orphanage, drinks Bahorel under the table once, cheats with surprising skill at cards. Bahorel catches what he thinks might be an interested glance once or twice but otherwise has no notion if Feuilly finds him attractive. But at least he knows that he doesn’t mind his company.

They no longer spar every day but manage at least every other day. Between Eponine and Bahorel, Feuilly is becoming a formidable swordsman. 

When Bahorel finds himself with idle time on what feels like the last warm day of the year, it’s only natural he seeks Feuilly out. 

Feuilly is almost never in his quarters but can reliably be found in the training grounds or great hall, if it happens to be a meal time. 

Bahorel finds him in the stables, brushing his horse, which is properly speaking a job for the groom but which suits Bahorel’s purposes admirably. 

“I have to get out of the castle or I’ll summon a demon just so I can have something to kill,” Bahorel says. 

Feuilly regards him with disdainful amusement. Bahorel loves it because he knows Feuilly will go along with whatever Bahorel lays out anyways. 

“You’re going to be unbearable come winter,” Feuilly says, shaking his head. He’s smiling a little, though, like he might be looking forward to it. Bahorel hopes he is. If nothing else, he at least plans to snag a Yuletide kiss. 

“But it’s not winter yet,” Bahorel counters. “Let’s go for a ride.”

Feuilly requires some persuasion but, as always, he agrees eventually and the two of them ride out. Bahorel’s been showing Feuilly some of the better parts of the lands near the castle but he hadn’t yet taken him to this particular hill. He’d been saving it for a good clear day because it is the highest point within reach and one can see for miles and miles. 

“What do you think?” Bahorel says. He may not have manufactured the sprawling forests or fields but he feels like he should get some credit for showing them to Feuilly. 

Feuilly takes a long look. “It reminds me of home,” Feuilly frowns and then says, as though correcting himself, “Where I’m from.”

“Do you miss it?” A stupid question that Bahorel regrets as soon as he asks it.

“Sometimes,” Feuilly says, surprising Bahorel with the mildness of the answer. 

“Why did you leave?” Bahorel says, because he’s always been one to push his luck. 

Feuilly turns to look at him. Bahorel can’t read his face but his eyes are burning with something.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Bahorel adds, remembering Enjolras’ grave expression. “I’m just curious.”

It’s so long before Feuilly answers that Bahorel is sure that he’s offended him beyond repair but then Feuilly says, “I had a lover.”

“Oh?” Bahorel croaks out. 

“He was the son of a nobleman,” Feuilly says, with a defiant emphasis on the word ‘he’. “We were found out.”

“They kicked you out of the country for fucking someone?” 

“For fucking a nobleman’s _son_ ,” Feuilly corrects. His face is drawn in, mouth grim. “And they didn’t kick me out. I chose to leave, after he renounced me.”

It takes a minute for the full picture to sink in, probably because Bahorel is sidetracked by hearing Feuilly say the word fuck, but when it does sink in, it’s not a pretty image. Feuilly, a commoner, likely with few allies at court, abandoned by the person who should never have abandoned him. 

“What a piece of shit,” Bahorel says, anger surging within him. Feuilly should have killed him. Bahorel _will_ kill him, if he ever comes across him. 

Feuilly smiles. It’s small but devastating. 

“Do you know it’s actually fine? I’m glad to be here.”

“You are?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’re happy to have you here.” 

Feuilly smiles enigmatically. He turns. 

“See that stream over there?” 

Bahorel’s gaze follows Feuilly’s finger and he can see a stream downhill in the distance. 

“Yes.”

“Race you there.”

\--

Bahorel is an idiot. They’d been riding hard and it had been an unseasonably warm day. A quick swim had sounded like a great idea. 

I am an idiot, he thinks again, as Feuilly strips off his shirt. He can handle this much. He’s seen the strong freckled expanse of his chest before and he’s seen it heaving and covered in sweat, so he’s hardly going to be undone by it now. Only no one swims in their pants. 

Feuilly kicks off his boots and then seems to sense Bahorel’s gaze because he looks up. Bahorel quickly looks away, hoping his flush will be put down to the ride, and starts pulling off his own clothes. 

God, the water better be cold. 

Feuilly rushes to jump in and Bahorel, not eager to be caught on the bank with his pants down follows. 

“Fuck.”

The water is cold but it’s going to take a lot more than a little chill to dim the heat that had flared at the sight of Feuilly’s perfect freckled ass. 

Feuilly doesn’t seem to feel the cold as much and he swims a lazy lap as Bahorel crouches in the water, absorbing the chill. 

Feuilly pauses in front of Bahorel. “You’re not going to swim?”

“I’ll get to it,” Bahorel says. He wonders if his lips are turning blue. 

Without a single muscle in his face moving, Feuilly splashes Bahorel, right in his head. 

Bahorel wipes the water from his eyes. “You realize you have declared war,” Bahorel tells him, cold instantly forgotten. 

Feuilly’s eyes narrow with a mixture of amusement and challenge. 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Bahorel says and he dives at Feuilly with a roar of battle. Feuilly lets out a startled laugh as he throws more water in Bahorel’s eyes.

They’ve wrestled as part of their contests, of course, but that was before the unicorn. Anyways, it’s different now because Feuilly is naked and wet and laughing. Bahorel considers dunking Feuilly to be an act of self preservation. What you can’t see, can’t drive you out of your mind with lust.

Unless, of course, what you can’t see emerges from the water to tackle you in a tumble of smooth heavy limbs. 

Bahorel rises up out of the water and backs away, making sure that the water goes no lower than his hips. 

Feuilly stalks towards him, laughter still creasing the corners of his eyes. “Conceding?”

“Never,” Bahorel says, rashly. 

But Feuilly doesn’t tackle him like Bahorel had feared, and hoped, that he might. He just looks at Bahorel and shakes his head.

“Have you ever backed down from a fight?”

“No,” Bahorel says, affronted. “I like fighting.”

“And what if you’re not longer the best someday?”

It’s personal thing to be asking, particularly of a naked man, but Feuilly was honest with him earlier and Bahorel feels he owes him an equal honesty. 

“I like fighting even more than I like winning.”

Feuilly nods but doesn’t say anything, just takes a step forward, and then another. Bahorel doesn’t move even as the water recedes down Feuilly’s torso, lower and lower. 

And then Feuilly walks right past him.

Bahorel hears him climb out of the water. He doesn’t look to confirm because that way lies madness. But then Feuilly speaks, as though just continuing the conversation. “What would you do if weren’t a knight, then? Become a brigand?”

It would be rude of him not to turn around or, worse, it would be telling, so Bahorel cautiously looks over his shoulder. Feuilly’s sprawled in the sunniest patch on the bank. His eyes are closed, which gives Bahorel a moment to absorb the sight, the shirt Feuilly has draped over his lap for modesty leaving almost nothing to the imagination. He’d never found freckles attractive before but apparently his tastes were expanding in all sorts of unexpected directions these days. 

Bahorel cautiously moves out of the water, hoping Feuilly will keep his eyes shut. The erection he’s sporting in spite of the cold might be considered ill-form. 

“I can’t imagine not being a knight,” he admits, keeping careful watch on Feuilly as he inches over to his clothes. His horse watches him, extremely unimpressed. “I suppose I would be a mercenary if I were anything else.”

“Uncreative.” Feuilly doesn’t open his eyes as he answers, which gives Bahorel the opportunity to grab his shirt and lie down in the second sunniest spot on the bank, which is close enough to Feuilly that he could touch him with his arm outstretched but no closer than that. 

“Well,” Bahorel says, arranging the shirt as best he’s able, “I definitely wouldn’t be a bard.”

He closes his own eyes, because he’s never going to get himself into a state fit to ride by staring at all the freckled limbs on display. It’s too cold to be lying on the ground but really it it’s too cold to go swimming. “What would you be, then?”

“I don’t know. A farmer or something.”

Bahorel snorts. He wasn’t the only uncreative one. “You’d be wasted as a farmer.”

He can practically hear Feuilly scowling as he says. “It’s a necessary occupation. There’s no shame in it.”

“Sure,” Bahorel agrees. “But you’d be wasted as anything other than a knight.”

Feuilly’s silent but there’s a weight to the silence. Bahorel can’t look over at Feuilly to see what kind of weight it is. Looking would mean staring, staring would mean being caught, and being caught would mean- Bahorel isn’t sure what it would mean but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want whatever it is to happen in the middle of a forest in autumn because he can’t control himself. So he doesn’t look. 

Finally Feuilly speaks. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”

The words are easy but Bahorel can only imagine how hard it had been for Feuilly to follow that dream. Bahorel’s not particularly inclined to introspection. He picks a plan of action and follows through, accepting the outcome. But he wonders in that moment whether he should be pursuing Feuilly at all. It’s clear that Feuilly is too good for him.

He can’t help it. He turns his head and looks. 

Feuilly is looking back. 

An electric thrill shoots up Bahorel’s spine. 

Feuilly opens his mouth and says, “I think we’re probably dry enough to dress.”

Bahorel clears his throat and looks away. “Probably.” They aren’t but Bahorel feels safer with both of them dressed, even if it means riding back with a damp shirt. 

As the castle comes into view, Feuilly brings his horse to a stop. Bahorel follows him, shooting him a questioning glance. 

“I wanted to say thank you,” Feuilly says. 

“For what?” 

“For today, I suppose. You were right. It was good to get out of the castle.”

Bahorel does his best to only grin like a partial idiot instead of an outright fool. “You realize I’ll hold that against you every time I want to go somewhere.”

Feuilly smiles back, small and private. “I’ve created a monster,” he says and he doesn’t sound upset about it. 

The weapon is almost ready, Bahorel thinks, heart thumping with want. He’ll know one way or another then. 

\--

It’s been a few days since Bahorel’s talked him into doing something, so Feuilly’s not all that surprised when Bahorel waylays him on the way the training ground. 

“Hey, follow me. I have something for you.”

Feuilly warily follows Bahorel’s beckoning arm into the armory. It’s midday but no one’s around. Everyone must be out practicing. 

Feuilly expects some sort of weird weapon, a new sport for them to compete in, or maybe a map showing the location of some new quest. What he doesn’t expect is to be handed an absolutely beautiful sword, flawless silver steel. Feuilly wants to tease Bahorel about his new weapon but it’s far too lovely to mock.

“Give it a swing,” Bahorel says, eagerly, his eyes focused on Feuilly’s face. 

Feuilly takes a step outward and swings the blade once and then twice. The balance is perfect. He whistles appreciatively as he offers the sword back to Bahorel, hilt first. 

Bahorel holds his hands up. “No. It’s yours.”

“What?”

“Look at the hilt.”

Feuilly turns it over in his hand. The hilt is engraved with a unicorn rampant, rearing up as Feuilly’s unicorn had done right before he had killed it. The engraving is fine-lined and intricate, the lines etched deep so that they will not easily be worn away. 

Feuilly’s first instinct is to bristle. He might not be able to afford fancy custom weaponry but who needs it? But then he looks at the hilt again, the impeccable craftsmanship that must have taken weeks to perfect. 

“This isn’t charity.”

Bahorel shakes his head, silent for once. Feuilly thinks he might be blushing. 

“And it’s not bribery for anything?”

Bahorel snorts. “No. I just thought you’d like it, that’s all.”

Feuilly puts the sword down, carefully. He turns to Bahorel and fixes him with the fiercest glare in his arsenal. “Am I being courted?”

Bahorel is definitely blushing now. “Shit. I guess? I hadn’t really thought of it like that. I’m no good at all the dancing, pretty words sort of thing. But yeah, I -”

“You?” Feuilly takes a step forwards. 

Bahorel plants his feet, refusing to give ground. “I want you,” he says, jaw up, like it’s a challenge to a duel. “Any way I can have you.”

\--

Bahorel is terrified. 

He has no idea how to read the expression on Feuilly’s face. He can’t tell if he’s offended or disgusted or angry with Bahorel for having been his friend for weeks without saying that he might want something more. 

Bahorel steels himself for a punch to the face, as Feuilly takes another step forward. 

Then Feuilly says, “I accept.”

“You-accept?”

“Your courtship. I accept.”

“You do?” Bahorel may not be a scholar but he usually feels smarter than this. To be fair, Feuilly’s face is closer than usual and smiling more than usual. 

Feuilly laughs and he sounds as astonished as Bahorel, which makes him feel a bit better. “Yes. Can I kiss you?”

“Fuck yes,” Bahorel says and closes the distance between them. 

The kiss gentler than he expects after all their fighting, just a soft touch of the lips, followed by a warm, wet tongue brushing the line of his lower lip. Bahorel feels himself let out a low moan that he refuses to be embarrassed about because it makes Feuilly’s hand go right to his hair and pull them closer together. The kiss doesn’t get harsher but it does get deeper. 

“God,” Bahorel gasps against Feuilly’s cheek. “I see we’ve discovered the weapon you’ve mastery of.”

He can _feel_ Feuilly’s smile. “Should I make the obvious joke?”

Bahorel pulls back, just enough that he can see Feuilly’s face. ‘Say it,” Bahorel dares him, grinning.

Feuilly flushes and laughs. 

“Say it,” Bahorel says, playfully nipping Feuilly’s chin because he doesn’t want to interfere with the laugh.

“Fine,” Feuilly says and he surprises Bahorel by leaning in to murmur in his ear, “That’s not the only weapon I have mastery of.”

And it’s utterly ridiculous but Bahorel’s knees go weak. But it’s not because of the joke but because of the warm breath of Feuilly’s voice on his ear and the fact that his movement forward brings them just close enough that Bahorel can feel a hardening length through Feuilly’s pants. 

Feuilly’s still chuckling softly but he picks up on Bahorel’s change of mood when Bahorel grabs both sides of his face and kisses him with all the fierceness the king’s champion can muster. And Feuilly kisses him back just as fiercely. 

If there’d been any doubt lingering in Bahorel’s mind about whether or not he’d wanted this, it’s gone now. Every part of him is hungry. Even as he’s kissing Feuilly, he wants to be on his knees before him, he wants to be pinning him down, he wants to be pinned down by him. He wants everything at once. 

When Feuilly jerks away, Bahorel feels the loss. 

“What?”

“Someone’s coming.”

He’s right. Bahorel can hear footsteps. 

His first instinct is to drag Feuilly back into a kiss but he’s not sure Feuilly would let him, judging by the tense look on his face. Anyways, he’d rather not be caught with a hard-on in the armory by someone who will judge him, like Enjolras, or someone who will laugh at him, like almost anyone else.

Bahorel pulls away completely, pretending to inspect some chainmail. Feuilly picks up his new sword. 

The footsteps draw closer and Sir Marius appears in the doorway. He startles, clearly uncertain why Bahorel is glaring at him. 

“Sir Bahorel,” he says slowly, and then nods in Feuilly’s direction. “Sir Feuilly.”

“I just came to grab some practice swords,” he says, clearly deciding to ignore the weird tension in the room. “Eponine is determined that I won’t lose any of what little skill I have.”

He reaches past Feuilly but is distracted. “What a well-made weapon,” he tells Feuilly, looking at the unicorn blade. “Is it yours?”

Feuilly looks up at Bahorel and he smiles as he says, “It is.”

“My quarters,” Bahorel mouths at him, and slips away, leaving Feuilly to answer Marius’ questions about the blade and about the beast who had inspired it. 

\--

Bahorel walks around his room, picking up clothes and throwing them in his chest, straightening his papers, making the bed. He hasn’t had anyone to bed in ages and none of those people had ever been Feuilly. 

He doesn't realize that he was afraid that Feuilly wouldn’t come until he hears a knock and he’s filled with relief as much as anticipation. 

Bahorel opens the door and pulls Feuilly forward by his collar

“Watch the shirt,” Feuilly laughs, closing the door with his foot. 

Bahorel doesn’t apologize but he does kiss Feuilly deeply and slowly. 

“You realize,” Feuilly says, biting Bahorel’s lower lip, “that I had to ask someone where your quarters are.”

Bahorel laughs at that.

“I told them I was delivering your new sword.” 

“You’re keeping the sword,” Bahorel says, bringing his hands up to Feuilly’s face. His face is just slightly scratchy beneath his palms. It makes Bahorel want to lick him. “Aren’t you.”

“I’m keeping the sword,” Feuilly says, nuzzling into Bahorel’s palm. 

“Good.”

Feuilly looks up at him, a glint of challenge in his eye. “And I’m going to learn how to beat you with it.”

“Oh, you are, are you?” 

Bahorel pulls Feuilly into a headlock. Feuilly swears at him but there’s laughter in it. He knows well enough by now how to escape one of Bahorel’s headlocks and upon escaping, he doesn’t go far. Instead he launches a counterattack, driving into Bahorel with his shoulder, knocking the breath out of him. 

The fact that Bahorel’s laughing doesn’t help him regain his breath but he has a new tactic he can use. He licks the side of Feuilly’s neck. 

“Ass,” Feuilly says, retaliating by biting Bahorel’s ear, none too gently. 

Bahorel responds by pulling Feuilly’s hair, harder than he meant to. Feuilly gasps and Bahorel quickly draws back. Feuilly’s face makes it clear that it was a good kind of gasp. Bahorel can’t help but grin, feeling entirely satisfied with himself. Feuilly’s eyes narrow. 

“It seems drastic measures are called for,” Feuilly says and he’s the most attractive thing Bahorel has ever seen, hair mussed, lips and cheeks red.

Before Bahorel has realized, Feuilly has swept his feet from under him. He lands with a heavy thump on his bed. Before he can react, or maybe just applaud Feuilly on his excellent aim, Feuilly crawls on top of him, pinning him down with hands pressing down on his shoulders. 

“You cheat!” Bahorel says, leaning up for a kiss. 

“Oh, what are the rules, then?” Feuilly says, pushing down a little harder and staying just out of reach. 

Bahorel has no idea how he’s supposed to form an intelligent response to any question at the moment. “Looking like that that is cheating,” he says and it comes out hoarse.

Feuilly lets him go but only so he can grab Bahorel’s face. “King’s champion,” he says, against Bahorel’s lips, “and he can’t even handle a little roughhousing.”

“I’ll show you what I can handle,” Bahorel says, and surges up to kiss him, hard.

\--

“Shirt off,” Bahorel says, pushing at Feuilly’s shoulders. 

By the time Feuilly’s wrestled out of his shirt, Bahorel’s lost his as well and Feuilly has a remarkable expanse of muscled, scarred torso to look at. Bahorel leans back, looking smug. Feuilly has no choice but to stop whatever insufferable comment he's about to utter by pressing a sucking kiss to a thick scar on Bahorel’s shoulder. 

“Fuck,” Bahorel says. “How’d you know?”

“Know what?”

“That’s the scar from the unicorn. Not your unicorn. The one before that.”

“Our unicorn,” Feuilly corrects, moving on to a deeper scar on Bahorel’s pectoral. Probably an arrow stopped by armor, if he had to guess. 

“You romantic,” Bahorel says.

His mockery is rendered pretty ineffective by the fact he has to fight through a gasp to say it but Feuilly still feels he can’t let that stand. After all, out of the two of them, Bahorel’s the one who made him a sword.

He pulls Bahorel into a rough kiss, which has the dual benefit of shutting Bahorel up and of bringing their chests together.

“God,” Feuilly gasps against Bahorel’s cheek. 

“Fuck,” Bahorel agrees, biting Feuilly’s jaw. His hands feel like they’re everywhere at once. 

Feuilly’s lover had been the type to drag him into a barn late at night or to wait until they were in the middle of nowhere to pounce. He’d certainly never had Feuilly in his chambers where any servant might see or hear. Feuilly hadn’t even known he’d wanted this: Bahorel sprawled on the sheets of his own bed, laughing, swearing, never once telling Feuilly to hush or someone might hear.

But Bahorel is impulsive and doesn’t always think things through. Feuilly has a moment of doubt

“You’ve done this before, right?” Feuilly asks. Bahorel’s demonstrated a fair amount of experience thus far but there hadn’t been a single rumor that Feuilly could find about any past lovers, which was saying something for court. 

“Not with a man,” Bahorel says, absently. He appears to be focusing most of his attention on undoing the laces of Feuilly’s pants so it takes Feuilly a moment to realize that Bahorel has answered his question. He looks down at Bahorel in surprise. “What?”

Bahorel shrugs, the movement doing interesting things for the muscles of his shoulders. He should never wear a shirt again, Feuilly thinks, becoming distracted before reminding himself that he’s trying to have a conversation. 

A conversation Bahorel apparently has no interest in, if the way he’s slowly tugging Feuilly’s pants down is anything to go by. 

Feuilly takes the offending hand and pulls it away, pinning it to the bed. 

Bahorel gives him a questioning look. 

“We should talk about it,” Feuilly says.

Bahorel’s brow furrows. “Talk? About what?”

“You’ve never been with a man before and-”

“I’m not a virgin,” Bahorel says with a chuckle that Feuilly can feel. His free hand slides down to Feuilly’s ass, squeezing it with a rough possessiveness that robs Feuilly of most of his conversational ability. Most, not all.

“I still think-”

“What’s there to talk about?” Bahorel says, wiggling his other hand free and burying this one in Feuilly’s hair. 

Feuilly doesn’t think Bahorel could have thought this all through. Once you’ve been to bed with a man, it can be a difficult reputation to shake. People, even in the kingdom that Enjolras has built, will be likely to think of him differently. There will be names, whispers, possibly violence. 

“It’s different,” Feuilly says, quietly. 

Bahorel smiles and Feuilly is startled out of his troubled thoughts by the beauty of it. 

“You’re right,” Bahorel says. “I have been wanting to talk about that.”

“Oh?” 

“Yes, I want you to fuck me.”

Feuilly stares down at Bahorel. Blinks. Blinks again.“That’s, uh, advanced, maybe.”

“Well,” Bahorel says, looking away, as though he can hide any part of himself in that moment. “I’ve been thinking about it and I think I’d like it.”

“You do?” Feuilly says hoarsely, his whole body going hot and shivery at once. He has to stop his hips from grinding down. 

Bahorel looks at him. His eyes are very dark. “Yeah.”

Feuilly stalls out a little. He would suspect that he’s dreaming but he doesn’t think that he would have had the imagination to picture Bahorel like this, vulnerable and wanting. He realizes he’s been staring for too long when Bahorel shifts uncomfortably. 

“You don’t have to-” Bahorel says, and he looks almost uncertain. “If you don’t want-”

“Shut up,” Feuilly says and it comes out at a growl. He needs his mouth on Bahorel immediately. 

He mouths his way down Bahorel’s neck, feeling the vibrations of Bahorel’s chuckle as he does so. The chuckle stops abruptly when Feuilly finds his way to Bahorel’s nipple and bites, just a little too hard. Bahorel swears and his chest arches up into Feuilly’s mouth. He’s sensitive, Feuilly notes, licking the nipple in apology. He’ll have to explore that more, but later. He has a different goal now. With that in mind, he presses a kiss to the stretch of skin above Bahorel’s belly button before nosing the hair below it. 

He looks up and Bahorel is looking back at him, eyes slightly glazed. 

“You’re going to kill me,” Bahorel says, looking dazed. 

“No,” Feuilly says. “I am going to fuck you. Help me get your pants off.”

“Properly speaking,” Bahorel says, with a lazy smile, “I shouldn’t be taking orders from a junior knight.”

He takes his pants off anyways. Feuilly hadn’t gotten a thorough look when they had been swimming but he’s pleased to see some of his suspicions were correct. 

“Can I?” Feuilly says, staring at Bahorel’s cock. 

“I wish you would,” Bahorel says. He sounds impatient but he doesn’t grab at Feuilly or push his hips forward. He waits and Feuilly rewards his patience by taking him in as deep as he can.

It’s never been one of his greater talents but he’s good enough that Bahorel swears, his hand going to Feuilly’s hair in a firm but gentle grip, like he needs something to hold onto. 

Feuilly had just meant to get acquainted, as it were, and move on, but he finds himself caught by the feeling of Bahorel in his mouth, the weight, the salty taste. 

“Not to complain,” Bahorel says, and he’s trembling slightly, clearly fighting the urge to thrust. Feuilly will let him, some other time. “But if you don’t want this over in the next minute-”

Feuilly takes the hint and pulls off with one last suck of the head. Bahorel swears and clenches his fist in Feuilly’s hair.

Then Feuilly has an unhappy realization. Because even in his most detailed fantasies, Feuilly had never imagined Bahorel asking for Feuilly to fuck him, he hasn't come prepared. He runs a finger over Bahorel’s perineum, enjoying the shiver it produces even as he prepares for disappointment. 

“I don’t suppose you have oil or something,” Feuilly says, a little desperately. 

He’s immediately surprised when Bahorel wordlessly reaches under the bed and presents him with a vial of particularly fine vegetable oil. 

The vial is not small and it is half empty.

Feuilly looks inquiringly at Bahorel who shrugs shamelessly. “I told you I’d been thinking about it.”

Feuilly is hit with a sudden visual of Bahorel, face down, ass up, fucking himself with his fingers. “I want to see,” he demands, handing the vial back. 

“Truly?” 

“Truly,” Feuilly says. 

Bahorel doesn’t turn on his stomach like he had in Feuilly’s imagination but he does slide down onto his back and pull his knees up, so the view is still well worth seeing. 

“You’re really going to make me do this myself when you’re right there?” Bahorel says, sounding disbelieving even as he coats his fingers. 

“Yes,” Feuilly says, unbending, greedily watching as Bahorel’s hand trails between his thighs. “Bend your knees more.”

Bahorel sighs dramatically but does as he’s told. “I thought you were going to fuck me. I didn’t realize I was going to have to fuck myself.” 

“Get yourself ready,” Feuilly says, “and I promise I will fuck you until you forget your name.”

“Promises, promises,” Bahorel says, but the last word comes out strained as he slides a finger into himself. He has big hands. Next time, Feuilly thinks, deliriously, he’ll take those hands for himself. 

“You should take your pants off,” Bahorel says. “Give me something to look at.”

It’s a good idea considering how tight his pants have become. Feuilly stands and shucks them before returning to the bed, kneeling near enough to touch, though he doesn’t. 

Bahorel’s eyes wander over the newly uncovered parts of his body. He’d felt Bahorel’s gaze on him before but he’d never been sure of what it meant or if it meant anything at all. There’s no uncertainty now. Bahorel wants him.

“Fuck,” Bahorel says, and he puts another finger in himself. 

Feuilly feels like swearing himself. He leans down and kisses Bahorel quick and hard, before leaning back again. He wants to see everything. 

“Look at you,” Feuilly breathes, eyes darting from the hand Bahorel has wrapped around his cock to the one he has firmly thrusting into his ass. 

He jerks his eyes up to Bahorel’s face, flushed the exact same shade as it is when he’s fighting. Bahorel catches his eyes and he smiles, even through a groan as he thrusts his fingers into himself.

“Will you fuck me now?” he says, and his eyes drop to Feuilly’s cock. 

“Yes,” Feuilly says decisively. 

“Finally,” Bahorel says, as though he hadn’t been enjoying himself. 

“Up on your knees,” Feuilly says. “It’ll be easier that way.”

Bahorel laughs at him, over his shoulder as he complies with Feuily’s order. “I have literally had a sword thrust in my stomach. I think I’m good.”

“It wasn’t thrust up your ass, now was it?” Feuilly says, exasperated. 

Bahorel laughs again. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that big.”

Feuilly’s runs a thumb over Bahorel’s asshole, which stops the laughter. It’s red and a little puffy from Bahorel’s fingers. Bahorel hadn’t been rough with himself, exactly, but he hadn’t been tentative either. He knows what he wants. 

So, Feuilly gives it to him. 

He presses in slowly to give time for Bahorel to adjust. It’s time he doesn’t need, apparently, to judge by the low and very satisfied moan that rumbles through him when Feuilly’s fully seated. Feuilly’s hands tighten on Bahorel’s hips. 

“You really do like this,” he blurts out, astonished, at the edge of losing control, and a little in love. 

Feuilly had only ever this particular act with a fellow squire, who had never spoken to him again afterwards. His lover had never allowed it, the implication that being only common men liked to take it. Apparently this was deeply incorrect. 

Bahorel hips shift slightly and both of them groan. “I’d like it even more,” Bahorel says, and his voice is tight with want, “if you started moving.”

Feuilly carefully withdraws and then pushes forward. Then again, setting a slow but steady rhythm. 

Bahorel arches his neck back, looking at Feuilly with eyes that seem to have been swallowed by pupil. His cheeks are red and he’s smiling. “Is that really as hard as you can go?”

Feuilly had intended to be gentle but he loses his head a little at that and god, Bahorel takes it. Feuilly’s not as large as Bahorel but he’s a knight and muscled like one, yet Bahorel doesn’t move an inch on the bed. Even when Feuilly throws his whole body into his thrusts, Bahorel’s arms remain braced. When Feuilly finds the right angle a tremor rocks through Bahorel but his arms remain steady even as he lets out a garbled mix of blasphemy and swears, with Feuilly’s name mixed in somewhere. 

“I can’t,” Bahorel says. “I need-”

“I know,” Feuilly tells him, and reaches around to take Bahorel’s cock in his hand. Just two firm strokes and Bahorel’s coming, a beautiful ripple of muscle.

Next time they’re doing this face to face, Feuilly thinks, through the haze of sex. He needs to see what Bahorel’s expression is like when he moans like that. 

He holds himself still, not sure if he should keep going. “Can I?”

“Go for it,” Bahorel says. 

Feuilly only needs another few thrusts before he’s coming, collapsing onto Bahorel’s back. 

It’s a long moment before he can summon the wherewithal to pull out, which causes Bahorel to grunt. Feuilly presses a quick kiss to the back of his neck in apology. 

Bahorel immediately collapses onto his back with a gusty sigh, closing his eyes. 

Feuilly has a moment of doubt about whether or not he’s allowed to stay but Bahorel hauls him onto his chest. It’s about as comfortable as lying on a sweaty boulder but Feuilly doesn’t say anything.

“Christ, that was fantastic,” Bahorel says, after a while, grinning from ear to ear. 

“It was alright,” Feuilly says, as nonchalantly as he can manage, considering he’s still catching his breath and he can’t seem to stop smiling. 

“Oh?” Bahorel rises on his elbow, carefully not dislodging Feuilly.“Alright, was it?”

Feuilly can’t help but smirk as he says, “Well, allowances have to made since it was your first time and all.”

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll show you alright,” Bahorel says, a dangerous edge to his look.

“Ten minutes,” Feuilly raises his eyebrows, trying to look serious. “That long?”

Feuilly can’t help but laugh when Bahorel tackles him with a growl. 

\--

As much as Feuilly would like to stay the night, he doesn’t think it’s a good idea for his absence to be noted. They’re going to have approach the situation with some level of discretion if Feuilly wants to make a name for himself separate from Bahorel’s. 

So he wakes Bahorel up from a light doze to say farewell. He manages to fend off Bahorel’s wandering hands but is unable to dissuade him from accompanying Feuilly back to his rooms, which Feuilly should have objected more strongly to. Bahorel apparently can’t go more than ten feet without pushing Feuilly up against something and kissing him. 

Feuilly’s been pushed up against the door to his room when he hears someone clear their throat quietly. 

Feuilly opens his eyes and looks over Bahorel’s shoulder. 

Bossuet and Joly smile at him sheepishly. Joly waves. Feuilly feels himself go scarlet. Bahorel grins at him in amusement and takes his time backing away, his lips sliding down the length of Feuilly’s jaw, heedless of Feuilly’s reputation or his blood pressure. 

Bahorel turns around and regards Joly and Bossuet with only the vaguest recognition. 

Feuilly sighs. “Sir Bahorel, this is Sir Bossuet and Joly. I share a room with them."

Joly beams, as though Feuilly’s acknowledgement of reality was some sort of gift. 

“It’s a pleasure,” Bahorel says, seemingly meaning it. Feuilly hopes he’ll remember their names. 

After a quick exchange of looks, Bossuet clears his throat decisively. “Excuse me, good sir, but we have a question to put to you.”

“No,” Feuilly says instantly. “No, you don’t.”

Bossuet continues anyways. “Perchance, was any buggery occurring here?”

Feuilly wants to sink into the floor but Bahorel doesn’t look embarrassed. In fact he looks highly entertained and a knot in Feuilly’s stomach loosens. 

“Not here,” Bahorel answers, grinning. “But a fair amount did occur.”

Bossuet nods solemnly, reaches into his coin purse and hands a beaming Joly five pieces of gold. “I was wrong to doubt you, my friend,” he tells Feuilly.

“You bet on me?”

“He thought it would take until midwinter,” Joly says. 

“Mistletoe, huddling for warmth, mulled wine,” Bossuet says, dreamily.

“Sounds cozy,” Bahorel says to Feuilly, the gleam in his eye one that is becoming rapidly familiar. 

Feuilly clears his throat. He knows he’s red in the face but he hopes that Joly and Bossuet will put it down to irritation. He knows he hasn’t a prayer of convincing Bahorel that’s the case. 

“Sir Bahorel was just leaving,” he says, pointedly. 

Bahorel grins and then pulls a comical frown, turning it towards Joly and Bossuet. “I’m suppose I’m off then. To my lonely bed.”

Bossuet and Joly look far too sympathetic. 

“Get out of here,” Feuilly growls, pushing at Bahorel’s arm. 

Bahorel gives off a crack of happy laughter. “Goodnight, slayer of unicorns. Until tomorrow, then?”

Tomorrow there will be sparring and arguing and probably buggery, as well. 

Feuilly can’t wait. 

“Tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd, so I apologize for any mistakes. Thanks for reading! Next up, Courfeyrac/Combeferre and a curse


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